Do I Have To Say To Get Away, Get Gone
by silverluna
Summary: The moments before and after Milt rescues Russ. Some contemplation and some comfort. Later, Russ faces Holly. Episode Tag/Missing Scene to "Stockholm". One-Shot. NOT SLASH.


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Spoilers for the episode "Stockholm".

Characters: Russ Agnew, Milt Chamberlain, Holly Dale

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Crime, Friendship, One-Shot

Rating: T

Pairing: Russ/Holly (minor)

Summary: The moments before and after Milt rescues Russ. Some contemplation and some comfort. Later, Russ faces Holly. Episode Tag/Missing Scene to "Stockholm". NOT SLASH.

Author's Note: While I'm _supposed to_ be writing on others fics, other fandoms are distracting me. ;) Gotta go where the inspiration takes me. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. :) Happy reading!

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 **How Many Times Do I Have To Say To Get Away, Get Gone**

A _Battle Creek_ story

by silverluna

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Mere seconds after Russ' furious efforts to sever the chains around his ankles paid off, he heard the creak of the basement door. Scrambling to his feet, his pulse quickening to beat a dull thud in his ears, Russ retreated to the shadows to the left of the stairs. He retrieved the baseball bat he'd grabbed when Clint Ford had first brought him down here—then, pushing off his blindfold and grappling in his new surroundings for any sort of weapon that he could use. And then, he'd had to drop it after Ford again pointed his own gun at him.

Though Ford had yet to hurt him physically, Russ had no doubt that his captor would, especially if his usefulness as a hostage came to an end. Gripping the bat with his cuffed hands, Russ waited with tensed muscles, ready to swing. He tried to steady his breathing, make himself invisible and volatile—a mad animal, if necessary, lashing out. Surprise had to be on his side, at least this one time.

The steps that Russ heard were hurried; so far, neither Ford nor Veronica had had any reason to rush. _What had changed?_ Was it finally time for Ford to make good on his murderous threats? Russ swallowed his fear and stepped out behind his captor, raising the bat. His knuckles turned white as he moved the bat through the air with force enough to take off the man's head. His captor turned toward him—not his captor. In shock, Russ dropped the bat with a gasp. An FBI bullet proof vest greeted him, and Milt's face, pale but washed over with relief. Milt lowered his gun. "Russ?!"

Russ's adrenaline drained, as did his usual tolerated hatred for Milt. He had never been so grateful to see anyone in his life; but then, he'd never been kidnapped before either. Later, he told himself he'd been scared within an inch of his life and that's why he let Milt hug him; it couldn't be that far from the truth. He'd done a lot of thinking when he was cuffed that post, before and after yelling himself hoarse for the help that wasn't coming. Russ had relived the attack at knife point several times—that dirty arm snaking around his throat, yanking him backwards long enough to grab his gun and force him to drive away.

Reasoning had been lost on Ford, but not because he was stupid, after all. Russ hated smart criminals—from the ones who knew their rights too well to the ones who knew all the loopholes and could work the system like any carny on a midway who knew how to spot, fool and take marks for all they were worth. Still . . . Ford was a smart man of a different kind. He knew how to stay under the radar, how to keep Russ in check with just a few idle—but scary—threats, and knew the value of a hostage.

Russ knew that Milt and the rest of the Battle Creek PD were looking for him since he'd seen Milt's plea for information about his abduction and offer to exchange himself for Russ as a hostage. At the time, he'd responded defensively, part for show for his captor, part because he believed it himself; he _couldn't_ owe his life to Milt. He couldn't have that debt hanging over his head—adding more fuel to the fire that he was the weak, screwed up one, that Milt was more accomplished though he was younger and seemed, on the outside, unscarred.

Though he couldn't express it now, Russ knew would always be both sickeningly appreciative and bitterly resentful Milt had been the one to find him, first on scene. But since he'd been preparing to fight for his life, and the real trepidation had entered his consciousness that he could be killed—or perhaps worse, kept prisoner by Ford for much longer—Russ had to secretly give Milt the win here.

No one was witness to their short embrace, thankfully. Though Russ didn't want to admit it, he could hear sincere—perhaps, if anything about Milt was _actually_ genuine—concern when Milt asked if he was all right.

"Are you hurt?" Milt asked, holstering his gun and holding Russ at arm's length. He looked his older partner over, relieved to find Russ uninjured. Ever since Russ was kidnapped, Milt had carried the guilt that he'd—however unintentionally—put Russ in danger and that Russ might pay for it whenever Ford decided to get rid of him.

Even working overtime in their desperate search for Russ, neither had the Battle Creek PD nor the FBI come close to fully understanding Ford's endgame, nor his need to hold onto Russ. Russ himself had assumed all Ford wanted was revenge—why else would one escape from prison after twenty years?

"No, I'm—" Russ stumbled over the word 'fine'; it wasn't true. He tried again in his usual gravelly voice, "Not hurt."

Milt grinned, hitting him on the shoulder. _You're a hard man to find, Detective Agnew._ He didn't say it out of worry it would piss Russ off, or cause his partner to turn spite on him. Instead he said, "We've all been looking for you."

Russ nodded, unable to mention his thoughts on Milt's press conference. He recalled Ford's urging that Russ make an effort to be Milt's friend, to share a beer and open up, with a hidden shudder. He couldn't really imagine it, being too buddy-buddy with Milt, or seriously asking him what he'd been thinking when he made that televised plea. Russ _could_ imagine lighting into Milt about wanting more glory, because what Milt had already accumulated was obviously not enough—full credit for solving all of the cases they partnered on, his smiling picture constantly making it to the papers.

Yes, Russ could see it—after one too many beers unleashing a torrent of hate and accusation upon the younger man who'd wanted to be his partner and who had just rescued him from Clint Ford. Instead of relishing the satisfaction such an event would bring him, Russ felt sharp remorse hit his ribs. No matter what he really felt for the younger man, he could never do that to him. It would be just as wrong as letting Ford make good on his threat to kill that family at the gas station—whether or not Ford would have followed through.

Russ didn't know it—and might not understand it if he did—but part of Milt's reasoning behind wanting Russ as his partner was his seeking of a mentor, a seasoned, hard-edged man who wouldn't pull his punches. Someone he'd have to work hard to befriend. He'd like to believe that if the tables were ever turned that Russ would work just as hard to save his life—and because he did believe in the good in people, and what little he'd learned of Russ already, he figured he could trust Russ should the day ever come. _I'm glad he's okay,_ Milt reflected, silently thanking the higher power of good law enforcement resourcefulness.

In the faint light of the basement, Milt caught a glimpse of Russ's bound hands. He grabbed Russ's arm for a closer look, realizing the cuffs were tight enough to leave marks. Ford must have kept Russ tied up from the moment the pair drove away. Guilt flashed like lightning in Milt's insides, but he kept his face neutral. He patted his pockets for a handcuff key, and finding it quickly unlocked Russ's cuffs.

Russ sighed, mumbling, "Thanks, man," without looking at Milt. He was thinking of finding a wall to lean back on as he began to feel lightheaded—whatever had been left of his fight or flight instincts were definitely gone. If Milt noticed, he didn't comment, but he did get a good grip on Russ's shoulder.

"You okay to get up the stairs?" Milt asked with that concerned sincerity again.

"Yeah." The air in the basement felt stifling; Russ had before noticed a faint dampness, and the disused smell of dusty things—and that dog smell he'd tried most to ignore. It was almost strange to have both hands free, and to have spare thought for the pain the cuts the cuffs had left around his wrists. At the beginning of his kidnapping, he'd been desperate to escape; the notion lingered, but with a little less desperation the longer he was a captive. Russ had still wanted to get away, and had tried; he stopped the shivering thought what might have happened if it wasn't Milt who descended those stairs. Getting rescued really wasn't that bad—even if it _was_ Milt.

Before following Russ up the stairs, Milt took a quick look around the basement. He took in the scene of scattered debris—the knocked over blue and white lawn chair, the random things duct taped together, a length of broken chain by a post, a hand saw—and speculated on Russ's escape plan. What he'd seen on Russ's face before the recognition was plain fear muddled with a cop's fighting instincts. After two failed rescues, Milt was thrilled to finally get his partner back, and was more than surprised that Russ let himself be hugged and comforted for even a few seconds. It was all the thanks he needed—and all the glory that he wanted.

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 _Holly._ Russ tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He'd entertained the bitter thoughts that he might not get to see her again—either because Ford would kill him or she might simply not return from the cruise. But if she didn't return it wouldn't be for some darker reason, it would probably be because she fell in love with the guy, because she wanted to elope and because they were going to move away . . .

He'd entertained the scenarios where he finally told her his love for her, and her many reactions—all replayed in that darkened basement while he bided his time, while he tried not worry. Just the thought of her, and of seeing her again, had eased some the tension in his body, had soothed a few of the terrible places his mind went to should he not be found. Russ's mouth was dry.

 _Love_. His heart always leapt whenever he saw her, and despite the fact that everyone, including Milt, knew how much he loved Holly, she couldn't see it. And he couldn't say it. He couldn't even say it now, when he was safe. No. That too sweet look on her face, the absolute ignorance of his recent predicament held his tongue from telling her both the trouble he'd been in and that he needed her to know that he'd loved her since day one. Tonight, she was even more beautiful, and he tried not to gape at her as if she were a long needed water source while he was a dying man wandering in a desert.

So they'd stuck to pleasantries, to small talk. He'd have to be content enough with seeing her, with knowing she was back to Battle Creek, and that, for now, she didn't know what had happened here.

Milt wouldn't tell her, Russ was sure of it. It was the right thing, not getting that beer with Milt, not risking opening up, or saying any wrong thing. All he had to take with him home alone tonight was the hurt on Milt's face and Holly's continued unknowing. Well, wasn't that what he deserved? _Isn't it great to be alive?_ Russ considered with a grim smile as Holly left. It wasn't really a question.

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 **The End**

 _Thanks for reading! :)_


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